Pigs

The only light on the wide street below him, came from a street lamp, recently renovated for him. H e could feel the pain killers dying inside him and waves of pain moving about his bullet. He wouldn't last long, he knew. Not like this.Anytime now, the woman would cross the street, bullet-proof except for the head.It would be a long range shot , but he would strike gold. He was good. He smiled to himself. He could almost hear the little pop of the silencer and see her go down.'Pop'- ten points. Then he would be free to get help for his throbbing veins and arm that had shook slightly beyond his control as he tried to hold the rifle straight.

He was walking on tended grass through an orchard, the sun washing eveningly yellow through the leaves and over the tree horizons.Beyond the trees, were endless fields with black white fat cows that did not move much. He could not see them through the trees but knew that the grass was the rich green of Swiss countrysides on childhood milk cartons. He walked past oranges that smelt like marmalade. The air felt like the caress of a warm naked body under thick sheets, with the biting cold waiting just outside. "Do you believe in apricots?"


He came around with unconnected words ringing in his head. He could have missed her. "blasted Gad". He had no sense of time. He looked down at the street over his Whitworth. His hands didn't shake so badly now. He emptied the last of his pain killers. There was movement on one end of the street below- the little woman with her bundle of medicines was slowly hobbling across. He took a deep breath and steadied his rifle. For the umpteenth time, the trigger was pulled. "Pop". Splattered blood on the pavement.The woman was down without a cry. A slow stream of crimson grew around her head like an angry halo. Not red. Not any color, but a living thing. The blissful numbness was dead. His whole body shook as weeks of pain and fatigue washed over him. The smile was back on his face. He was going back now. Some well deserved rest. Treatment, a warm bed, warm pie. Dropping the rifle, he stood up. Somewhere on the other side of the street, another trigger-happy finger relieved him of all misery.

He was walking through the orchard, the sun half-blinding him. A cow's head turned lazily to look at him, behind a black white fat bottom and said, munching a blade, "Do you believe in apricots".